


with a cloud at your feet

by crookedspoon



Series: [1mw] Weekend Feeling [47]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Dancing, M/M, POV Prokopenko, POV Second Person, Prompt Fic, Recreational Drug Use, Silly, Teenage Dorks, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 14:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11442882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: Kavinsky has a lot of strange moods, depending on what he's tripping on, yet arguably there are none stranger than when it's just the five of you and he's trying out new pills.





	with a cloud at your feet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Taeru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taeru/gifts).



> Written for "Red Rose Day" at 1mw's [Weekend Challenge](http://1-million-words.livejournal.com/2075905.html?thread=20036865#t20036865) and 14. "overgrown" from this [microfic challenge](http://crookedspoonfic.tumblr.com/post/160142936701/send-me-a-number-and-ill-write-a-micro-story).
> 
> This is probably the ~~cutest~~ silliest TDP fic you'll ever see me write. I have cavities now.

Kavinsky has a lot of strange moods, depending on what he's tripping on, yet arguably there are none stranger than when it's just the five of you and he's trying out new pills. It's an audience that knows him and is not impressed by him, at least not overtly so, so that quiets down his compulsion to perform somewhat.

Which doesn't mean he doesn't come up with crazy ideas to pass the time.

Of which you are mostly the victim.

Tonight, when everyone is distracted either by their phone or the TV, or perhaps what music to put on next, Kavinsky silently and slyly pops one of his dream pills into his mouth. Within a heartbeat, he's asleep.

That, so far, is neither new nor very noteworthy.

What might be noteworthy is the thing he steals from his dream this time. In the blink of an eye, an armful of roses has manifested in his lap, wrapped in leaves and vines and other greens so that it looks as if he's hugging an overgrown rose bush.

With a laugh, he tosses the bouquet to you. You let it fall against your chest more than catching it, because you wonder if there's some meaning attached to the flowers or if he's just pulling your leg, and that type of thinking makes you sluggish.

To contextualize: This morning, Kavinsky had woken up under a blanket of rose petals, quite horrified that they had accompanied him out of the dream. You didn't know what that was supposed to signify, nor did you ask. He's told you once that curiosity is not a good look on you and despite trying not to be a suck-up, you still value his opinion more than anything.

Instead you asked if he was reenacting American Beauty.

Jiang elbows Skov when Kavinsky hauls himself out of his armchair. There's some cursing and arguing and pausing of games, because ultimately, they know something is about to go down and they don't want to miss it.

Their squabbling is background noise.

You only have eyes for K, who's strutting toward you like a wolf toward an injured rabbit. He certainly emotes hunger just the same. You swallow, clutching the bouquet, as ineffectual as it may be to protect against him.

Your feet are touching when he stops a mere handspan away from you. His grin would put the devil to shame. Serpent-quick, he strikes: plucking a single rose from your protective embrace, he throws the rest of the bouquet over his shoulder. It arcs towards Jiang, who swats at it so it flies onto Swan's lap, a little bedraggled and with fewer petals.

It happens in the corner of your eye, because the real show is in front of you. With a flourish, Kavinsky puts the rose stem between his teeth, while his other hand snakes around your waist and presses your body to his.

There's no music, no sound except for the whirring of a fan in the corner and the sniggering behind you, but when Kavinsky curls his fingers around yours and begins to lead, you could swear he's moving to the rhythm of Moulin Rouge's 'Roxanne.' Or maybe that's your impression because it's the last movie you watched and the score is still stuck in your head.

Just like that, you're gliding through the room, side-stepping bottles and plastic cups and discarded t-shirts, breaking out all the steps you had to learn for your sister's wedding. You blush to remember having asked K to help you practice. He was a shoddy dancer at the time, but somehow you made it work, more interested in getting each other to crack up than to actually complete a correct box step. In the end you were exempt from having to dance at the reception, for which you were exceedingly grateful. You don't think the figures you attempted with Kavinsky were any use on a formal dance floor.

It's quite a pace he's setting. Your pulse is throbbing in your veins and you're sweating from exertion, fan or no fan. His hand is searing on the small of your back. You're so close his breath stirs the hairs framing your face and his body heat amplifies yours. You might combust from that alone.

Red-faced, you let him twirl you and embrace you, even dip you, although that one must have looked awkward because you didn't trust him enough not to drop you.

You're more prepared the second time he does it, but to your surprise and disappointment, that's also where your dance ends. Someone has played Dean Martin on their phone while you've been busy concentrating on your footwork and you only notice now that it's gone.

It's replaced by cheers, applause, and wolf whistles.

Kavinsky bows graciously, soaking in the adulation and blowing kisses, before he throws his rose into the crowd, as if it consisted of more than three heads. Skov catches it and immediately voices his disgust: "Ew. You drooled all over that, man. What the fuck?"

"You're not ending with a kiss?" Swan demands when the noise dies down.

"What?" Kavinsky retorts. "We just gave you the show of a lifetime and you're still not satisfied?"

"Are you telling me you're chicken?"

Skov clucks like one.

Oh no. You don't think your nervous system could handle a kiss, no matter how chaste. The mere thought of it has your ears making tea kettle sounds.

You tense when Kavinsky throws his arm across your shoulder and slaps your chest.

"Come on, man," he says. "Don't you see you're making Proko uncomfortable? Just because the boy has a crush doesn't mean you get to make fun of it."

Skov's clucking is louder this time.

"I need a drink," Kavinsky deflects to save you from further embarrassment, disregarding the fact that he just embarrassed you the most by spelling out what everyone's been thinking.

If only the earth would open and swallow you whole right about now.

You can't help the way you feel, but you certainly never let it influence your friendship with K. It's just your luck that the object of your affection is a keen-eyed forger who has mastered the art of observation. Of course you wouldn't be able to be around him without letting anything slip. Why did you ever think you could hide it from him?

Possibly because he doesn't care. Not about you anyway. Not in that way. But there's one thing about the whole deal you're grateful for: you're still friends. He hasn't outright rejected you, and that's got to count for something, right?

It hurts, yeah. _Fuck,_ it hurts. But it would hurt a lot more if your friends shunned you and wouldn't let you hang out with them anymore.

But they're cool.

You accept a drink you expect to pack an extra punch from Jiang and wedge yourself next to him onto the sofa. Nobody mentions the dance, at least for the rest of the day.

Maybe they'll unpack it again tomorrow, maybe they won't. For your part, you're already planning how to embarrass them in turn.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "That's Amore" by Dean Martin.
> 
> Thanks for reading! If you liked this, please leave a kudo and come find me [on tumblr](http://crookedspoonfic.tumblr.com/), if that's your thing. :)


End file.
